"Take these three people away. Lock them all up together and let them make up their minds once for all. At ten to-morrow morning they may either die or accept. No great matter which. Hold that other man-Bertram-for the same hour. Take them away! And now, Mr. Pity, there are no further candidates. You may omit the rest of the proceedings. I want my luncheon. I'm an old man, Clever, and all this excitement is bad for my heart. If you ever had any consideration for anyone but yourself-"
His snarling whine was shut from their ears as the three prisoners passed into the Green Room, and the red door closed behind the last of their guards.
CHAPTER 17: THEIR LAST CHANCE
WHEN Justice Supreme commanded that the former candidates for Superlativism be "all locked up together," the police evidently construed the command as including Bertram. It was into the bare, steel-walled room where that rotund gentleman awaited his fate that Trenmore, his sister, and Robert Drayton were presently escorted. They were little surprised at this. What did amaze them was to find their fellow victim not alone. Seated on the floor with his back to the wall, he was engaged in earnest conversation with a small female person, enthroned upon the only chair in the room. Moreover, the latter was wagging an admonitory finger at Bertram as if delivering a "curtain lecture" of the most approved domestic type.
The chair comprised the entire furnishing of the cell. There was not even the moldy straw, without which no medieval dungeon was complete. It might be merely a detention cell; or perhaps prisoners of the Temple passed to their doom too swiftly to require sleeping accommodations.
In costume Bertram's companion emulated the rainbow for color. Her large hat was bright green, lined with pink. She wore an old rose silk sweater over a soiled lace blouse, and crumpled blue linen skirt; her hosiery was golden yellow, and her down-at-heel pumps had once been very elegant green buckskins. As the door clanged shut behind the newcomers, she turned upon them large inquiring eyes, whose size was accentuated by the thinness of her face. Her complexion, however, was as fine as Viola's own. The yellow button displayed upon her old-rose lapel bore the number 23000.
Bertram's first expression of surprise changed to one of genuine concern.
"Say, boss," he questioned Trenmore. "What's up? Did they frame you, too? Or have you come to kiss your old college chump good-by?"
"We'll be saying good-by this day the way we'll be troubled with no more farewells at all," retorted Trenmore grimly.
"Are you really in bad, all of you?"